Push the Limits
by oneofyourfrenchgirls
Summary: After a month in rehab, Dean goes to live with his soulmate from the pharmacy, chasing normality. Sequel to The Dead Walk Slash: Cas/Dean, Eating Disorder!Dean. Somewhat schmoop-y.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or its characters.

**Pairings:** Cas/Dean, Sam/Jess, minor Bobby/Ellen.

**Warnings: **Eating disorders, swearing, mentions of sex (slash), John making an appearance.

**Summary:** After a month in rehab, Dean goes to live with Cas with a strong wish for everything to return to normal.

**A/N:** This is the sequel to _The Dead Walk_. Read that first :)

* * *

**Push the Limits **

**(The Dead Walk)**

**Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls**

* * *

Light footsteps fall on the worn wooden floor, a few thuds here and there as the hard soles of Pointe-shoes touch the ground. There is no music, not yet, but the sound of experienced feet against hard surface is much like a melody nonetheless. Tight, hard bodies move gracefully in silent rhythm, hands of difference sizes holding onto the barre and determined eyes staring straight ahead.

Dean Winchester only sees the back of Jo Harvelle's head, the golden hue of her hair, but he considers it a lovely sight. She is petite and flexible, strong and fierce; and she doesn't hide it. She would never try to hide her body, only ever dresses in tights and spandex, skin-fitting t-shirts and belly shirts. She flaunts her body; flaunts all her hard work and success much like he himself used to do.

He feels like a graceless blob as he raises his healed leg up, up, up and up until knee meets chest and he has to reach up to grab his ankle. This part isn't difficult - stretching is easy, just pulling and pushing in a relaxing dance - it doesn't make his lungs burn or his muscles ache. If he is asked to lift her, asked to lift her lithe, muscled body, he won't be able to do it.

Sweat runs down his face, down his back and out of every pore on his body. Every dream of becoming the lead dancer, the best dancer, is erased. No matter how much he wants it - no matter that he used to have it - he will never be able to continue dancing the way he is used to.

"One, two and down, down. One, two and shift. Reach higher, _higher_. Off with the grimaces, ladies and gents. I said no faces!"

Dean tries to school his facial expression the best he can, even if he thinks that it was rather void before, and he's relieved when Ellen walks right past him to correct a girl behind him. He hears her speak up again, voice stern and unforgiving, but he can't really make out the words. The air feels dusty and old, even though the air condition is humming above them. He sees Jo change pose; how she lets go of the barre and reaches for an imaginary sky. He can only watch, for a few seconds, before finding himself and following her lead.

Ellen doesn't notice his delay and he promises to do better tomorrow.

* * *

The refrigerator is of stainless steel, a new model with an in-built ice machine. It's clean and empty, save from one single paper. It looks pathetic and helpless like that, thin and bleak and strict. Thick, black letters on the unnatural white.

It should be harmless. It _is_ harmless, just a schedule that is going to be replaced on Sunday evening. In two days, there's going to be a new paper (white and thin with heavy words: a new week, a new try). Four days have been crossed over with a neon-yellow pen, the kind that Sam uses in his books whenever he studies.

Dean stares at it, wishes nothing more than for it to burn under his gaze.

He doesn't know what to do, not really, because Castiel isn't at home today. Still at work, unable to come home during lunch, and Dean knows that he's being unreasonable. He should be able to have lunch without his boyfriend making it, watching him. After a whole month in recovery - therapy sessions, forced feeding and he is _so glad _to be out - but they warned him about this.

'You're going to find it hard,' they said, as if he doesn't know. As if he isn't aware of how much harder it's going to be here, in reality.

He just didn't count on it being this hard, because he _knows_ what he should do. He knows that he should open the fridge and take out the plate of chicken curry and quinoa that Cas cooked him yesterday evening, just for this. He knows that he should heat it up and sit down by the kitchen table, just pick up a fork and eat it. Swallow it. Keep it. It isn't hard. It _shouldn't_ be.

He just...

Castiel won't know. Sam won't find out. No one has to know. No one is going to find out.

So Dean takes the plate out and throws the food (healthy, good food, cooked just for him) in a small plastic bag. This isn't the first time he has done this, but it feels just as good as the first time. Like a rush of adrenaline, pumped out just the second he ties a knot on the bag and heads out for a walk to find a proper garbage bin to toss it in.

The sun is shining now, the air warm and the sky blue, another perfect summer day that Dean should savour. Instead, he shoves the see-through plastic bag down a garbage bin meant for dog shit, feels so good and relieved. It feels so right, to just leave it there and head back home. Take a shower, drink the lemon water in the fridge, pop some ice out from the ice machine and watch TV-Shop for a few hours. He sees the old commerical about a blender, but it doesn't stick. That's okay, because it plays over and over, and Dean doesn't have to remember.

He just feels the relief flood through him again and again each time he thinks about the calories he just skipped. All those calories, carbohydrates, thrown away and never entering him. He doesn't feel empty, doesn't feel weak or faint, but it will come soon enough. If he skips dinner - heads out tonight for pilates at the gym, says _don't wait up, go eat with Sam_ - he might feel it tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, he can skip breakfast, because really.

This is just so hard. It's too hard. Today sucked and tomorrow is going to suck and this is all he can do.

* * *

"I'm going to the gym," he says. Ten minutes to four, no, nine minutes to four, because he's been watching the clock above the TV for hours now.

"It's Friday," Castiel replies, voice cool and maybe a little bored. Dean knows better, though, because Cas loves crosswords. "You had practice this morning. You said you were going to the studio again tomorrow morning."

"I am, it's just. I've been on my ass all day. I need to-"

"No," Cas says. He exhales heavily, but it isn't exactly a sigh. Not really, but nearly, and it hurts just as much. Dean knows that he's being unreasonable and a bit mean, because the schedule says that tonight is dinner out, and Cas really likes going out to eat. "If you skipped lunch today, you really need dinner. Jessica told me about this place-"

"Then eat _with her_."

"Dean."

He can almost hear Castiel's thoughts (_fuck, not again, this shit is getting old_, but maybe not worded exactly like that), and it hurts. It aches, somewhere, because he knows that he isn't just letting himself down. He doesn't look at Cas, can feel his electric blue eyes on him, but he won't be able to lie to his boyfriend. To Bobby, it's easy, just mix his words with a few curses. To Sam, it's hard, but he can do it. To Ellen, Jessica, to Jo, it's easier, just look a little lost, just so, and their pity blinds them.

Castiel doesn't do pity. He doesn't know Dean like Sam, but maybe that's why. Castiel isn't his brother - Cas can leave. Leave and never come back, if he gets tired, and Dean doesn't want to bore him. He doesn't want Cas to leave him.

"I'll be back by eight," he promises and stares at the watch. Six minutes to four. It takes forty minutes to go to the gym, fifteen minutes with the bus.

"Dinner is at six, and I haven't seen you eat your snack."

"We can have dinner at eight," Dean argues, but they both know that it won't happen. Castiel stares, waits, but Dean can't do this. He can't do this, because he knows that he has to choose. He is a terrible decision-maker, so Cas is probably not surprised when Dean gets up and leaves the flat with his gym bag slung over his shoulder.

* * *

Pilates is good. Sweat and dry throats and muscles quivering. It's exactly what he needs - strength training and cardio in one, making him pant and sweat and stretch - but he looks like a fool and feels like a fool. He can't let the other dancers see him like this (whisper, _oh, how the mighty have fallen_), because he used to be so strong, so quick. Here, surrounded by female college students and housewives and the occassional teen, he still feels like a fool. The only difference is that these people don't know him. They might see his body, think, consider, but they will never know for sure.

The instructor is male, dressed in impractical sweat pants and a tight shirt, and he's young and strong. He doesn't seem to mind Dean's presence (once, when they first met, he said, _nice to finally have another dude around_), but his looks are obvious. Wondering, maybe, why Dean shows up dressed in spandex and Metallica t-shirts when it's obvious that he should be dancing, practicing that instead of doing pilates with a bunch of amateur athletics.

The man tried to ask once, but Dean had fled before the question could be elaborated past the _you're a dancer, huh_. It feels better to just have the man stare at him, to wonder instead of knowing, because Dean doesn't want him to know.

He just wants to sweat and breathe and feel his muscles shiver.

* * *

Sam calls him on Saturday morning, using his lawyer-voice instead of the kind, annoyed tone that Dean is used to hearing. His little brother talks and talks, scolds him for skipping meals, but he hangs up with a piss-poor excuse of behing late to practice. They both know that Dean has already had practice this morning, because Sam would never call before Dean is properly awake.

Castiel enters the kitchen at noon, looking tired even though he got up around seven o'clock, to have breakfast with Dean. He's still dressed in his blue pjamas, the one he insists wearing on weekend mornings to laze around in. With ruffled hair and droopy eyelids, Castiel shouldn't seem so scary.

Only, he does. He does, because Dean cares what he thinks. Dean cares, because he doesn't want to be thrown out and left alone.

"Have you had lunch yet?" Cas asks, as if he wasn't stood up yesterday. Dean shakes his head, and Cas continues; "Have you had your ten o'clock snack? The, uh, yogurt?"

Castiel has good memory, but Dean doesn't like that his boyfriend remembers every little meal that he's supposed to eat. He doesn't like to be reminded and he doesn't really want to have any one else telling him what to put in his mouth. Dean shakes his head again and Castiel wordlessly starts cooking.

Today's lunch is soup and bread, but Dean can only manage to eat half of it before he starts playing with it. He presses the spoon against the vegetable pieces and watches as they turn to mush. The slice of bread is left untouched, and they sit in silence until Dean has eated a few bites from it. It's just another lunch, almost two hours of torture, because Dean hates to eat and Cas hates the disorder.

* * *

"You seem to be in a flunk," Cas says, one week after Dean skipped lunch-snack-dinner and went to pilates class instead.

"_You're _in a flunk," Dean answers through gritted teeth. Cas doesn't respond to that, just puts his fork down and takes a sip of his soda. Dean glances at his own glass, condensation turning into small droplets of water and the ice cubes melting into thin chips. The sun glares at the streets, but they're hiding under a parasol in the outdoor seating. It could be a really beautiful day, had Cas not chosen to ruin it by talking.

"You have been skipping a lot of meals, lately," Cas continues, as if Dean isn't being stupid or rude. He picks up his fork again, prepares another bite of pasta with a carelessness that Dean will never reach. "I know that asking you to eat over two-thousand a day is a lot, but you have to try. You have to, Dean."

"_I am_! Fuck, I'm trying, okay?" He really is. Just. Sometimes, it's easier not to eat. Just leave it be, feel the relief of knowing that he isn't going to turn fat under the night. Another day where he can make sure that everything is on his terms, that his body isn't going to change when he wakes up, it's going to be easier. Right now, it's not.

"Good. That's good," Cas says and takes a bite of food. Chews it. Swallows. It looks easy.

Dean picks his own utensils up, but they feel foreign and heavy in his hands. He plays around with the chick-pea salad and impales a few raisins on his fork. He counts them - eight in total - and puts them in his mouth. Chews. Chews and chews until all that's left in his mouth is the sweet taste of dried fruit.

* * *

When it's time for weigh-in, Sam is the one that drives him. He doesn't let his little brother follow inside, doesn't let his brother know that he's been chugging water (litres, litres, and he really has to pee, right the fuck now) since he woke up. He feels bloated and fat, but he can't go back to the clinic. If they tells him that he has to stay, Castiel won't be there to pick him up again.

He gets up on the scale, tries not to pee his pants, closes his eyes and waits for the verdict. The nurse tells him to step down and scribbles on a piece of paper. It looks about as harmless as the schedule on the fridge, but he can't help but feel that it's evil. She smiles at him and says, with a light voice,

"You're free to go back home, Mr Winchester. A close call, but you haven't lost any weight. The doctor will send you next month's eating schedule in a week."

"Thanks," is all he says before he rushes to the bathroom.

* * *

They lie in bed, Thursday night after one of Dean's therapy sessions, when Castiel's soothing caresses turns into something more intimate. Dean feels a brief flash of panic before responding to the touch, their lips brushing and breaths mingling. The bedroom is dimly lit, the only light coming from Castiel's nightstand, and Dean reaches out to turn it off.

He stops, just for half a second, prepared to have a mini-fight about lights-on-or-off, but Castiel's usual protest doesn't come. It stings a little, but he shouldn't complain. So he turns it off and closes his eyes, thinks that they can both forget for awhile.

Cas' hands feel big on him, even if they are about the same size, everywhere. Their kiss deepens and Castiel makes little noises that sounds more sad than turned-on. They slide out of their underwear, sheets staying on even when Cas positions himself between Dean's legs. His fingers are cool with the hand gel that Jess gave Dean on his birthday, teasing before sinking inside.

Dean gasps, because it feels so good, it's been _weeks_. Cas twists his wrist and makes another little noise, a broken off moan, as his fingers thrusts in and out with expertise. Dean can't help but spread his legs further, giving his boyfriend more space, and he throws his head back into the mountain of pillows. A groan catches in his throat, unable to get something out when curious fingers are rubbing inside of him.

It isn't until Castiel's cock is sliding inside of him that he feels something wet land on him from above. A warm wetness that he feels when Cas leans forward and presses their lips together. The room is completely silent for a moment, not a sound except for the tiny, damp thrusts that Cas can't help.

Then the sobbing starts.

Dean closes his eyes and lets Cas hide in his neck, crying with weak sobs as he drives into Dean with half-hearted movements.

* * *

Suddenly, it's Halloween.

Dean hears all the other dancers talk about the parties and trick-or-treating they're going to do. They ask him to join in, bring his boyfriend, bring Sam, but he turns them down. They don't put up a fight, just Jo whining until she threatens him with creative wording that, if he doesn't show up at Bobby's with Cas, she's going to turn him into a eunuck.

She then calls Cas and informs him of the party that Bobby and Ellen is planning, which makes it impossible to bail.

They don't dress up, but no one is really expected to at such a low-key party. Jessica turns up in a flashy nurse's outfit anyway, because she isn't the kind to pass up on any chance of dressing up. Rufus stares at her until he recieves a warning glare from Bobby, and Jo expresses her jealousy of Jessica's long, long legs. Dean has to bite his lip to not tell Jo that he prefers her body anyway, all hard muscles and stamina that has been earned the hard way.

There are bowls of candy everywhere, and Ellen tells them not to have any until after dinner. Dean excuses himself and heads for the bathroom upstairs, stays there until Jo is sent to get him. "Dinner," she yells through the locked door, using the same no-bullshit tone that her mother has.

Downstairs, the table is set with all kinds of food. The mashed potatoes are coloured red in true Halloween-spirit, but the steaks look normal, as does the salad. It all smells delicious, but Dean hasn't had red meat in months so he just loads up on the salad and grilled peppers.

They manage halfway through dinner before it starts. Dean wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but why should his luck turn now?

"How're you holdin' up, kiddo?" Bobby asks, and this wouldn't make him uncomfortable if not for the way the man stares at his plate of greens. "Ellen's been tellin' me you're doin' good in class."

Dean opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say other than what he tells his therapist (_just up and down, y'know, one day at a time_. It's an answer that pleases her, because it isn't admitting that it's a dance on roses, but also not that it's going straight to Hell. It's an honest answer). He struggles for awhile, and Cas is the one who saves him. Kind of.

"Dean has been struggling the last two months," Cas says, so serious and honest and caring. He tells them what they want to know, because they are getting tired of Dean's bullshit. "We go meal by meal now."

Dean glares at Cas, tries to let his boyfriend know that this answer just isn't okay. It isn't okay to go around saying things like this. This is private. It's his shame, his embarrassment, and _it's not okay_. Especially not wording it like this, because they all know that they used to take it _day by day_, and this is a giant step backwards. Dean curses and swears in his head, hopes that it doesn't show too much on the outside, because these people probably already know what he's thinking.

Castiel doesn't seem to notice (he doesn't care, he's tired of this shit, Dean knows he is).

"That's, uh," Bobby starts, but he doesn't know what to say to that.

"When is John coming back home?" Ellen asks, using the kind of voice he always hears in the studio. It's an order, but he doesn't know the answer. He plops a cherry tomato in his mouth and crushes it between in teeth.

"In a few weeks," Sam answers, soft and hopeful the way younger siblings are.

* * *

John Winchester is a scary man. Broad-shouldered, tall, well-built and short-tempered. Dean knows his father better than anyone - knows how John easily turns to drinking whenever something goes bad; knows that John likes to bury himself in work and only surface just before burning out; knows that John always blames himself, always - and therefore, he's scared shitless upon thinking of his father coming home.

They haven't met in over a year, only speaking over phone once every few months and sending letters around the holidays.

Dean doesn't know how much John knows. He has written about Castiel once, this summer, telling that he finally moved in with someone and is actually living in monogamy. His father wrote back that it was a miracle, but that's that and end of story. It's different from when Sam wrote about Jess, about being engaged, because John came home running then to meet the bride and her parents.

This is different, because Castiel is a man and John's experience with men isn't the best. John's friends are all in the military, showing off a side of manliness that Castiel doesn't even possess, but he knows that his father is going to be vary and suspiscious just because Cas is of the male gender. Not so much because of the homosexuality, but certainly because of gender.

He also wonders if John knows about his visit to a rehablitation clinic. That his oldest son stayed there for a month without permission, with one visiting hour per week, because his BMI had sunk to the magical number 17.

* * *

Dean finds out a few days later, when his father and brother show up at the apartment. Jessica is with them, carrying a bag of groceries and wearing a big smile. She doesn't look nervous. John likes her (liked her from the start), so she hasn't been nervous since their first meeting. Cas, however, has been silently dreading this day since Halloween.

"Dad," Dean croaks out.

"Son," John says, and his voice is rough. His hug is unexpected, not really welcome right now, but Dean would have done anything for a hug from his father only a few months ago, so he savours it. He hides his face in his father's chest, pretends that John can't notice the change of his body, pretends that Jess and Sam can't see them. "Son," John repeats and his voice is softer now. His hug tightens, big hands splayed on his back and rubbing smooth circles until Dean is ready to cry.

He is proud of himself, however, when he opens his mouth and he sounds completely normal, "'S good to see you, Dad."

"You too. You too, son."

They get inside, Jessica hurrying to the kitchen to prepare them something to eat. This is such a good day already that Dean will probably eat whatever she puts on the table. Sam lingers a little in the background, though, as they enter the living room where Cas is reading.

"Cas," Dean says, hoping that the breathiness he hears is all imaginary. "Hey, Cas?"

"Ye- _oh_." Castiel is up on his feet in seconds, the book shut quickly and put on the coffee table, and he looks at such unease that Dean feels sorry for him. It's also kind of funny, to see his usually stoic boyfriend nervous. Dean considers it revenge for the Halloween dinner at Bobby's. "It's good to finally meet you, sir."

"Likewise," John says, and then it starts. Dean has only ever brought home two boyfriends in his entire life, and it has never ended well. John doesn't bother to hide his obvious inspection, likes to make everything seem like a test (which it is, everything turns into a test). "Nice place you've got here."

"Thank you, sir," Cas replies earnestly.

That's about as far as John's social skills go, and Cas is even worse, so Sam (who has the best social skills of them all, honed after years of college) steps in with his dimpled smile and floppy hair. "Jess is making fruit salad. She thought we could eat it in here."

Dean runs a check-through in his mind, wondering if there is anything embarrassing on the bookshelves or in the DVD-rack, but he can't think of anything that would make him uncomfortable. Castiel doesn't own anything unappropriate - there is the vibrator, hidden in his nightstand drawer; there are the condoms, hidden as well; but Cas isn't the kind of person to leave personal or intimate objects lying around.

"Maybe you should go and help her, Dean," Sam suggests. It doesn't really sound like an order, but Dean knows his brother well enough to hear when his brother is demanding something. Dean obeys, just to get out of the cloud of tension, but he gives his boyfriend a look to check if it's okay. Castiel doesn't seem to be more bothered by being alone with John and Sam than he does being with Dean by his side.

Jess is just finishing up when he walks around the kitchen island to aid her, throwing the pieces of banana, strawberries, mango and cantaloupe together in a pair of glass bowls. Dean will always be surprised by how much utensils, china and silverware that Cas owns.

"Help me carry these out," she says as she puts the bowls on a tray and motions for him to carry the bottle of mineral water and glasses.

Back in the living room, Cas, John and Sam have managed to sit down in the sofa group, but still look stiff and awkward. Sam chuckles when Jess sits down next to him, obviously relieved that he isn't alone in the awkwardness anymore. Dean wishes that he could say something that would break the silence, but he doesn't have to worry about it with Sam and Jess present.

"Dad, did you see Dean's last apartment?" Sam asks, mirth sparkling in his eyes as he sucks on a piece of melon. John only gives him a look that means 'you know I didn't, stop being an idiot', so Sam continues; "This is one hell of an upgrade. His last one was so cramped that I had trouble getting through the doors!"

"That's 'cause you're so fucking big," Dean finds himself saying. Sam cocks an eyebrow at him, daring him to say something about his size again, because Sam always has a midget-insult lined up. "But yeah, I'm totally with Cas 'cause of his apartment."

Castiel looks at him, confused for a second, before he recognises the sarcasm. He then tries to look relaxed and eat his fruit salad, but Dean notices the stiff set of his shoulders and the small wrinkle between blue eyes that always forms when his boyfriend is thinking too hard.

"What do you do for a living, Castiel?" John asks, glancing at Sam to check his youngest son's reaction to his civilised manners. Sam nods his approval, and Dean thinks that he has the weirdest family ever.

"I'm a tax accountant," Cas replies.

Dean has to smile a little (because, who would have thought, Dean with a tax accountant?), but he doesn't look at Cas when he does it, because he isn't that mushy. Instead, he focuses on the titles that are neatly organised on the bookshelves. They aren't in alphabetic order, which Dean would have guessed a few months ago, but in an esthetic order that actually works and makes the living room seem a lot more colour-coordinated.

"That's good," John mumbles. His beard is slowly growing back, even though he probably shaved it off before going home, and Dean can see the sprinkles of grey in it. It's so familiar that Dean wants to hug his father again, feel it brush roughly over his own cheek, but he keeps the urge deep inside of him, where it belongs.

* * *

It isn't until Castiel and Jess are in the kitchen, cleaning the bowls from fruit juice, that John pounces.

"Sam told me."

Dean knows immediately what Sam must have told their father, and he isn't surprised, but he can't help but feel the pang of betrayal in the pit of his stomach anyway. He also wonders when Sam told their father - if John has known all this time, if he only found out a few days ago, maybe just a few hours before coming here - so he keeps quiet and hopes that John will reveal more.

"I asked him about the leg, and he told me about this Castiel and..." John trails off, looks away from Dean to Sam, as if to see if this is still true. If it still applies. Sam doesn't nod, but he doesn't look away either. "Then I got this phone call from Sammy, only a few months ago, telling me to come home as soon as possible. Because he thinks that his older brother has anorexia nervosa."

The words sound vulgar on his father's tongue.

Dean wants to run away, because really, his father knows about his chick disease. He feels like a disappointment, knows what his father must think. Not only homosexual and dancing, but now also diagnosed with a disorder for teenaged girls.

"You look skinny," John says and his voice takes that rough edge it does whenever he's worried. Dean can smell the coffee coming from the kitchen, trying to focus on the smell rather tan his father's words. He really doesn't want to hear this. Not from Dad.

* * *

"I'm tired," he whispers against Castiel's dry lips. He doesn't get a reply, because Cas is long since asleep. "I'm so tired," he repeats, louder, but he can't sleep.

* * *

Jess and Sam's kitchen is very different from Castiel's (it's the one thing that still isn't 'theirs', never 'ours'). It isn't neat and tidy - dirty dishes lingers between meals, the breakfast cereal are always on the kitchen table and the counter is often littered by books or other things that doesn't belong in the kitchen. The fridge is covered by photographs and ugly magnets, a postcard or two from exotic places, a quote that has been hastily written down and put up on the fridge to be remembered forever.

Castiel's kitchen is the exact opposite. The kitchen table is always empty, save for the thick candles that are never lit and the two ceramic salt and pepper shakers. The counters are sacred, always empty and clean, ready to be used. The kitchen island is covered with potted herbs and expensive knives and a giant marble mortar. Dean would think it all silly and for show, if he didn't know that Cas actually used it.

Cas loves to cook. Likes to experiment even if it is this logic, the math, in it that had him hooked in the beginning.

Dean likes to watch him. Maybe not at home, where Cas seems lonely and only ever cooks for one and a half (because Dean just can't. He can't). This, however, is exactly what Dean likes to see.

Cas and Sam are cooking, Dean doesn't know what beyond the fact that there's fish and white wine involved. Jessica is away over the weekend to see her parents before Christmas, Friday to Monday, and Sam is too busy at work to join her. He does, however, have plenty of time to complain about it. Dean is practically sitting on top of his hands to keep from smacking his little brother each time he opens his mouth to whine about the fact that he's still here, in his home, while Jess is on the other side of the country and celebrating with her family.

The light is warm, if a little too dark, and Dean is feeling a bit sleepy. His eyelids are heavy and his body is just on the wrong side of chilly.

He decides to get up and go to the bathroom, wash his face a little perhaps and hope that it wakes him up properly. He didn't get much sleep yesterday, couldn't close his eyes even though he desperately wanted to fall asleep, but it had been rather peaceful to listen to Cas' heavy breathing and occasional snore.

Dean gets as far as to the small living room before he decides that lying down in the couch would be a lot nicer than washing his face and waking up. The couch is short and too-soft, a rather cheap piece of furniture, but it smells like Sam and there are several blankets hanging over the back. He grabs a mustard-yellow one and throws it over his feet, glad to feel some of the chilliness go away.

Dean nuzzles his nose into a pillow that smells of Sam's shampoo - herbal, expensive and stupid - and as he shifts a little he hears something crunch under him. Lazily, he brings his hand down under his side and fishes up what he accidently laid down on. Popcorn. Dean doesn't remember Sam as a slob, but he suspects that Jess isn't a neat-freak, and he does know that Sam actually is busy.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he's woken up by a warm hand on his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open, feeling too tired and annoyed, and he almost hopes that it's Sam waking him up just so that he can complain loudly without feeling guilty. Of course, it's Castiel looking concerned and just as tired as Dean feels.

"Sleep with me," Dean murmurs, forgetting where he is just for a second. When he remembers, he is sure that Sam wouldn't actually mind. Cas seems to think the same thing, because he nods slowly. "How long?" Dean asks, but he doesn't really know what he means by that.

"A few hours. We put your plate in the fridge," Cas answers and lies down next to Dean. They lie close, the mustard-coloured blanket covering their feet and Castiel pulls another one down over the rest of their bodies. Dean barely has time to register the brown colour of the blanket before he's asleep again.

* * *

Cas starts taking work back home. Spends hours in the guest room with his papers instead of going in to the office. They have breakfast, the ten o'clock snack and lunch together, and suddenly it's easy again. They share a pizza at dinner one evening, and Dean feels both sad and glad that Cas is with him, always, just knowing what to do and say.

Cas takes a few pieces of pineapple from Dean's side of the pizza, and they battle fork against fork until Cas gives up and leaves the warm fruit to Dean. Dean would feel a little guilty, because he knows how much Cas likes pineapple, but the giant smile on his face tells Dean that it's okay.

"Tell Ellen tomorrow that you won't come in on Sunday," Cas says when Dean has finished almost everything. "I've got plans."

* * *

Friday evening comes and they eat at a small diner down the street. It's about as far as they want to go, both ready to crawl into bed and sleep the week away, and Dean has two thirds of a hamburger. He plucks off the bacon, puts them on the small basket of fries and watches as Cas eats them for him. It looks so easy.

They get home and Castiel falls asleep in the sofa, dead to the world even as the speakers are blasting with sounds of machine guns and heavy music. Dean doesn't lower the volume, just puts a blanket (not mustard or brown, but the same kind of blue that the curtains have. It's an accent colour, Cas has tried to explain) on top of him.

He doesn't know what brings him into the kitchen, not really. He just pours himself a glass of water and thinks about going back to finish the movie that he hears playing in the background. The next second, he's eating dry biscuits and chugging the crumbs down his throat with one of the bottles of whiskey he finds in a cabinet. For cooking, but Dean has never seen Cas use it.

He goes through two packages of biscuits, until his throat is burning and he needs to go to the bathroom. His mind is a little fuzzy, maybe not so much from the alcohol, and his hands are shaking when he cleans the kitchen from any kind of evidence. He takes the bottle with him to the bathroom, though, drinking straight from it even as he relieves himself.

Afterwards, he sits down inside of the shower, fully clothed and nursing the bottle carefully, and he thinks about how tired he is. So, so tired, but he manages through more than half of the auburn liqour before he falls asleep.

* * *

They don't speak about it, but Dean is sure that Cas is thinking about leaving him. Or, rather, having Dean leave him. Leave the luxurious apartment and the big bed forever, because Dean must be the biggest screw-up in the entire United States.

He waits for a fight that doesn't come, tense and annoyed, snapping rudely when all he wants to do is apologise.

* * *

Sunday comes along and Cas suggest that they go out. Dean says yeah, okay, because there's only so much that Castiel will put up with before he gets tired of it. They dress up, and Dean feels uncomfortable and stupid in his suit, even though every other male in the restaurant look exactly the same. He feels out of place and wrong, but that's a familiar feeling.

He lets Castiel order for both of them, and they eat in relative silence. Dean wonders if this is it. Maybe today is the day that Cas has grown tired and this is their last meal together. Dean doesn't want it to be - he can do better, he'll try harder, if only Cas gives him a second chance. He tries to speak up, joke like he usually does on good days, but he doesn't know how to form actual words.

"I have something to ask," Cas says and puts down the spoon he's been eating his dessert with. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, uncertain and almost completely overcome with the urge to run while he still can. "I've been meaning to ask for months now."

Dean doesn't like the gravel in his boyfriend's voice; it means that Cas is doing something he isn't used to. He's nervous, maybe, and Dean doesn't know what to make of it. Maybe if he closes his eyes and pretends not to be here, Cas will forget about it.

"Look at me, Dean," Castiel says and he's so much closer than before. He has moved his chair next to Dean's, is holding Dean's hand in both of his and stares with ice cold eyes, unwavering even though the tone in his voice is quivering slightly. "I want to ask you." He huffs, an almost-chuckle, and he breaks their eye-contact for a mere second before looking up again.

Dean looks down when one of Cas' hands are drawn back, fishing something out of his suit jacket. It's a small box, covered in dark red velvet, looking foreign and weird in Castiel's long fingers. He pops it open easily, though, as if he's been practicing, and there's a ring.

"Will you-" Castiel's voice breaks, but he doesn't look close to crying "-marry me?"

Dean can feel his mouth open and close, but all he hears are Castiel's words. When his tongue finally decides to work, it's not to form an actual sentence, but to flicker over Cas' chapped lips and pry his mouth open. Their kiss is slow and wet, good and sweet like the strawberry panacotta that Cas just had.

* * *

"I still want a winter wedding," Cas says when they're back at the apartment. It's decorated for Christmas, but there's no tree yet and all the ornaments look expensive and exclusive, the way all of Cas' things does, rather than bought in multi-pack from a nameless store. "I wanted to ask you earlier, so that we could have the wedding in January."

"We can," Dean breathes out, lets his mouth work on his boyfriend's pale throat. "Anything," he mutters and nibbles on Cas' ear. "Anything you want."

Castiel huffs a small laugh and it's the best sound Dean has ever heard.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: **Please leave a review/comment, and do tell me if you'd be interested in some timestamps for this little 'verse.


End file.
